


Albatross

by TheWalkingGrimes



Series: Tales of District Four [18]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: (that should be a common tag), Finnick-typical horribleness, Gen, Happens off-screen, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Consensual Kissing, Other, Sex Trafficking, happens on-screen, not explicit but psychologically dark, this is very very dark and I'm sorry, underage sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27720934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWalkingGrimes/pseuds/TheWalkingGrimes
Summary: At one point, Plutarch Heavensbee considers making Finnick Odair the face of the Revolution.President Snow has other plans.
Relationships: very background Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Series: Tales of District Four [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018845
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	Albatross

**Author's Note:**

> Directly connected to [Line In the Sand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27641203) (the OMC is the same).

Finnick's a few months shy of sixteen, the first time.

It’s at the celebration of the end of the 66th Games. District Four didn’t last long (they almost never do, the year after a victory) but he and the other Victors who were called up have been asked to stay around for the festivities.

Taking part in the other side of things has been fascinating to Finnick. He’s been watching the Games for years, of course, seen all the cutaways to Victors at parties, making speculations and picking favorites while they’re drinking and laughing with wealthy Capitol citizens. It’s always been part of the allure of victory to him - being beloved, being seen as _interesting_ , being seen in general. He’s always been interesting - or funny and charming, at least - to the friends and teachers and trainers and dockhands of District Four, but that’s just Four. 

To be able to say something, make a joke or better yet some thoughtful insight and have _all_ of Panem see it? The thought of it is almost heady. 

Imagine what you could do with that kind of exposure. That kind of _power._

It’s disappointing when he realizes how much of it is fake. Finnick spends much of the Games being _handled:_ by Hapitha, who awkwardly positions him between famous and rich Capitolites - models, actors, socialites, business moguls, stylists, Gamemakers, the person who invented the Vomitorium apparently? - and feeds him cheesy one liners to say to the cameras.

“I thought you said I was a natural at this?” Finnick asks her after she has him say some variation of _“I suppose the odds weren’t_ quite _in their favor”_ for the seventeenth time that evening.

Hapitha blinks up at him, vacant. “Oh you _are_ Finnick dearest - you have absolutely no idea how _difficult_ it is to work with some of these more recalcitrant Victors - and the camera absolutely _adores_ you - just like everyone else of course.”

Then there’s Mags, who is on a one-woman mission to make sure Finnick has as little fun as humanly possible.

“Water for him,” she tells the Avox who’s passing around champagne flutes.

“Mags!” Finnick protests, feeling the flush creep up his neck. “It’s champagne, it’s nothing.”

“Water.” Mags repeats to him, and tells the same thing to the other Victors when they try to sneak him some drinks, actually _swats_ Haymitch away like he’s a cumbersome mosquito down on the bayou when the Victor from Twelve passes Finnick his ever-present flask during a Watch Party on Day Three.

“You’re treating me like I’m twelve,” complains Finnick when they’re alone on the District 4 floor in the Training Center. 

He expects her to say something witty and cutting - in her eyes, he basically _is_ twelve - but her mouth presses into a thin line. “When you’re in a den of snakes, best to keep your wits about you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

But Mags just points to her ears and then the walls - to remind him of the bugs - and goes back to her ropework. Cryptic old woman.

After that conversation Finnick tries his best to heed her advice, because she’s Mags and mentoring is apparently a lifelong commitment, but she’s not always there and sometimes he finds himself surrounded by people who are richer and older and far, far more powerful than he is, and they’re telling him he simply _must_ try this, and saying ‘no’ doesn’t feel like an option.

Especially when they’re sponsors. When one of President Snow’s attendants - _minions,_ Finnick calls them as his own private joke - pulls him aside and leads him away for an exclusive meeting with someone who sent him bread, or water, or medication in the Games. No one feeds him lines for those meetings, but he’s been coached ahead of time. These people are the reason he’s alive, and many of them know the President personally, and it’s very important that Finnick ensure they feel properly appreciated.

That’s what the President tells him when he pulls Finnick aside for a chat at the beginning of the Games - Finnick thinks it’s ordinary, until he tells the other District 4 Victors and they look at him with a mixture of unreadable expressions that might be jealousy or wariness or something in between. Nevertheless he receives a range of advice from all of them, and then some one-on-one ‘etiquette’ coaching from Hapitha. 

They all seem nervous about it, but it’s really not that hard, talking to sponsors. Talking to people has always come easily to Finnick, and even the simplest story about a fishing trip gone awry can send the easily entertained Capitolites into fits of hysterics that last minutes. He learns quickly to pretty everything up for them, because mentioning his friend Anton who lost three toes from hypothermia causes them to cringe away in squeamishness, but then they’re all pushing each other aside for a view of the girl from 5 being hacked to bits by the boy from 8.

(They’re not real, Finnick realizes quickly. The Games aren’t real to them, because they’re on a screen. And when the Capitol watches the Games they don’t see children being killed and being made to kill like the people of the Districts do, and they certainly don’t feel swallowed into the screen, taste the blood clinging to the backs of their throats like Finnick does. None of that is real to them, or at least not as real as a thirteen year old boy with only seven remaining toes because they were forced out to sea during a winter squall thanks to crippling Capitol quotas).

President Snow finds him at the end of the celebrations. “Finnick, my dear boy,” He says, pressing two fingers on Finnick’s shoulder, just a light tap. Finnick hasn’t seen him much with the other Victors, but from what he’s witnessed the President doesn’t call any of them by their first name. He’s not sure if it’s because of his youth or because the President likes him. It’s impossible to tell with Snow, and in spite of how friendly he’s been, Finnick feels nervous in his presence. “I have someone I’d like to introduce you to. This is Crassus Underwind, our Head Gamemaker and a dear friend.”

 _Head Gamemaker._ This isn’t the first time that Finnick has met a Gamemaker. Some of them make him as uncertain as President Snow, but some of them haven’t been too bad. He actually had a nice conversation with a refreshingly frank landscaping expert named Plutarch Heavensbee a few days ago - the first time Finnick has dared talk to a Capitolite honestly about his victory and how it makes him feel. 

_(“Confused.” He admits, after Plutarch successfully convinces him that there are no bugs on the rooftop patio. “Guilty, I think. Mags says that’s normal, though.”_

_“It’s more than normal, it’s good.” Plutarch gives him a bracing smile. “You come out of that arena and think killing is some glorious honor still, then we should worry about you.”_

_“We?”_

_“Oh, you know. Sane people. You don’t think any of this is_ normal, _do you?”)_

Finnick’s certain his conversation with Crassus won’t be that liberal. The Gamemaker’s eyes are dark, intense (dangerous) and Finnick feels very small and insignificant next to him.

He’s not sure if it’s Crassus’s intimidating presence or the multiple drinks he hasn’t been able to avoid, but Finnick’s tongue feels heavy in his throat. “Head Gamemaker? Wow, it’s such an honor to meet you.”

Immediately he wants to smack himself, for sounding so young, so eager to please (he _is_ young. he _is_ eager to please) and like a little kid next to two of the most powerful men in the country.

They both laugh, like he’s charming and quaint, and Finnick is part embarrassed, part pleased because if they’re laughing then they like him and he’s doing a good job. Crassus gives him another drink and Finnick takes it, hoping it will unwind the knot that’s twisted at the core of his stomach.

Then Crassus is leading him off, away from the party, which isn’t unusual but this is the first time the _President_ has personally introduced him to someone, and this is the _Head_ Gamemaker, who has the power to target or favor the future Tributes from Four. 

It all feels like a heavy weight on his shoulders that he doesn’t know how to shrug off.

Crassus takes him to a bedroom, which _is_ unusual since typically he has these chats in studies or lounges or patios. There’s a nice little sitting area with a decanter of red wine so Finnick settles into one of the plush chairs while Crassus pours them both a glass. Finnick wants to say ‘no’, feels like he probably should because he’s never had this many drinks this quickly and while the muzziness in his head is familiar, the knot in his stomach seems to have dissolved into something rancid that makes his stomach turn and that’s entirely new.

Dark eyes bear down on him over the edge of the glass. Finnick takes it.

“You’re very special, you know.” Crassus tells him. “I know you _do_ realize that. Record-breaking, of course, the youngest ever, by quite the margin. But there’s also your sponsorship funds.”

“I owe the Capitol a great debt,” Finnick tells him, just as he’s rehearsed with Hapitha. “I’m so grateful for all your wondrous generosity.” Normally this would be where he bats his eyelashes and says something cloyingly sweet about how he’ll have to repay them with his undying love and devotion.

Something in Crassus’ face makes that dry up in his throat. The atmosphere is heavy and intense, like molasses.

Crassus reaches forward and takes his hand. Finnick’s used to being touched, constantly - since before his Games even, he comes from a physically affectionate household, and then there’s Training, and then the girls who would find excuses to fall asleep against his shoulder - so he barely clocks the contact. _Since_ his Games he’s gotten used to being pushed and prodded around like a rag doll by his stylist and prep team and escort, and of course there’s the people in the Capitol who graze their hands against any part of him they can reach, kissing his cheeks and his hair and his mouth in greeting and merriment. 

“Did you know you received more than ninety percent of all sponsorship funds for the Games last year?”

Finnick shakes his head. “That’s quite a large portion.”

“It’s unprecedented.” Crassus continues. “Three Tributes died of dehydration last year. One from hunger. That’s not even including the ones who were weakened and dying when you struck them down.”

The acid in his stomach roils. A voice that sounds like Mags sharply reminds Finnick that’s not his fault - that nothing about the Games is _fair,_ and he should never get caught up on something as frivolous as whether or not he’d survived _fairly._

“Well that’s all part of the Games, right?” Finnick braves to reply. “It’s why we have sponsors in the first place.”

“Yes, of course,” agrees Crassus. “And while every few years there are surprise Victors who have very little sponsorship support, it is always rewarding when someone who the Capitol citizens have invested so _much_ in wins. It can’t happen every year of course, otherwise the Games would become boring and unsporting. But for you, the stars aligned and gave you your victory.”

Finnick doesn’t recall anyone _giving_ him his victory when he nearly got his brain bashed in by Tiberius - the half-crazed boy from Two - in his finale. But he chooses that moment to remain quiet.

“You know you’re beautiful, yes?”

The frankness of the question startles him. Yes. The answer is yes, Finnick knows he’s beautiful. Or handsome, good-looking, pretty, whatever name you would like to give. It used to get him some shit in Training, and then in the arena. Tiberius used “pretty boy” almost interchangeably with Finnick’s name - that and “Four” and “the kid.” Then there are the girls who’ve followed him around for years, the old ladies who pinched his cheeks.

And of course his Trainers, who talked him through his Games strategy and made sure Finnick knew how to use his looks as a weapon.

So yes, Finnick knows, and he knew even before he got to the Capitol and everyone started falling over themselves about it. He knew, but honestly he hadn’t been prepared for quite _that_ reaction, and it still bemuses him because his face can’t really be all that special. And he’s not sure how to answer Crassus’s question, because it feels like one of those questions that isn’t really one. 

“It’s a simple yes or no question, Finnick.” Crassus tells him before Finnick can come up with an adequate response. There’s a touch of amusement in his voice. “No need to compose a sonnet.”

“Yes.” Finnick replies with a sheepish laugh to cover his discomfort. “Yes, I do know.”

“But you don’t really understand.” This one is certainly not a question. “No, you’re too young to really grasp the full magnitude of it. Maybe if you’d grown up here, where beautiful things are valued properly. In the Districts beauty isn’t quite the commodity it is here. Useful, I’m sure, but you likely had no idea how powerful a force attraction can be.”

There’s something odd about the way Crassus is speaking. Like the way fishermen would argue about prices with distributors: haggling over quality and freshness. _Value._

Beautiful things have value. The implication is clear - Finnick, a beautiful thing, has value. Enough to make him worth over ninety percent of the sponsorship funds. But Crassus is right - he doesn’t understand it, because he’s never owned anything just for the sake of it being beautiful. 

Everything has to have a purpose.

Crassus stands up and goes to flip a switch. The holoscreen across the room flickers to life.

_“And what would you say to Finnick right now, if you could speak to him?_

Finnick jumps - not at the disembodied voice of Caesar Flickerman, but at the sight of his mother and brother, standing in the polished halls of the District Four Justice Building.

 _“I would tell him that I’m so proud of him.”_ His mother begins, her face the right mixture of teary and hopeful. _“He’s always been so strong, so clever. And brave. He’s the bravest person I know. If anyone can make it out of there, if anyone can win this thing, it’s my boy. My Finn.”_

 _“Don’t underestimate him,”_ adds Lotan. He’s smiling but Finnick notices the dark circles under his eyes. _“I’ve made that mistake before, and ended up flat on my ass. He’s tougher than he looks.”_

That’s a lie, because Finnick’s never beaten Lotan at anything - there’s too much of an age difference - and his brother always rubs his face in it. He’s just saying it for the camera, for the sponsors. Playing the Game.

Finnick’s seen this footage before, at his Replay. It’s the Final Eight interviews. But he’s not sure why Crassus is playing it now.

“What’s-” He starts to say, and feels Crassus’s heavy hand on his shoulder, anchoring him in place.

Crassus doesn’t say anything, just keeps holding Finnick in place while the interviews continue. It’s the uncut version, footage that didn’t make it into the show of his best friend from Training, the little neighbor girl Sara, the ship captain he works for on the weekends, his mother’s sister and her tiny toddler hanging off her arms -

“Look at how loved you are.” Crassus says lowly, his breath tickling the hair by Finnick’s ear. “You love them back just as much, don’t you?”

“Yes,” replies Finnick, confused, and the queasy feeling has increased tenfold.

And then Crassus leans over, pulling Finnick’s head around, and kisses him.

Finnick freezes.

It’s nothing like the quick pecks of greeting that he’s used to in the Capitol, or even the rushed and foolish kisses he’s exchanged with a few girls under the docks. 

This is like being devoured.

When the initial shock wears off, Finnick still doesn’t dare move. It’s for the same reason that he accepted the drinks earlier - in this Arena, Crassus is a grown Career and Finnick is a non-Volunteer child from an Outlier District. He’s afraid if he moves, his neck will be snapped in half.

Crassus finally pulls away, and it’s all Finnick can do to choke back tears of panic because he _doesn’t_ understand, he doesn’t understand anything that is going on, and whatever game this is he wants to stop playing. 

“What was-” Finnick stumbles over his words, all semblance of charisma lost. “Why-”

Crassus is still holding onto his shoulder in a vice-grip, the other hand on Finnick’s face, nails digging into his chin like claws. “Your father died in a fishing accident when you were just a boy.” He tells Finnick, all cruelty.

“And your little sister - she fell ill and died right before your Games. You almost lost your mother to the same illness. Tragic, all very tragic. Life in the Districts is _such_ a hardship, everyone understands. Even when tragedies happen to Victors, particularly to their loved ones-” And now he’s jerking Finnick’s face back to the holoscreen, where they are arranging all his friends and family for a photo-opp behind the scenes. “-everyone _understands._ Accidents do happen, you know.”

And… Finnick understands. 

Or, he’s beginning to.

“Don’t hurt them.” He rasps out, voice impossibly small to his own ears. “Please - _please_ -”

“It’s not in my control.” Crassus says smoothly. “That’s entirely up to _you._ You’ve behaved so beautifully as a Victor so far, played your role to near-perfection. All we are requesting is your continued cooperation. A small price to pay for your loved ones’ safety, especially considering the _‘great debt’_ you owe the Capitol.”

The air is suffocating him and his skin stings where Crassus’s nails are pushing in, but Finnick can’t lose anyone else. Not after his father, not after _Adelaide,_ and if there’s anything, _anything_ he can do to protect them-

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” The words feel like tar as they come out of his mouth. Or like they’re soaked in blood. “Please just - tell me what you need me to do.”

Crassus wrenches his neck back for another kiss, more bruising than the first. The hand that isn’t trapping Finnick’s head moves down, touching him in places only his prep team has. By the time Crassus pulls back again, Finnick is crying because he _understands,_ but he doesn’t. He knows what Crassus wants from him but he can’t. He can’t.

“I’m going to _show_ you,” Crassus says, pressing his nose into Finnick’s hair. 

“I can’t - I _can’t.”_ Finnick chokes out, nearly gagging on his terror. “I don’t know how - please, I don’t know anything - please, _please don’t -_ I can’t-”

There’s a sharp inhale against his head, and the nails dig in tighter, drawing blood. 

“Oh I know. Someone has to teach you. Why do you think I asked Snow to be your first?”

This time, when Crassus kisses him, he doesn’t stop.

This time, Finnick is devoured.

* * *

The Capitol skyline is disturbingly beautiful at night. Finnick leans his elbows against the railing and eyes the way the bright buildings contrast against the mountains - manmade and nature, clashing and coexisting. The exact kind of juxtaposition a Gamemaker would design. 

“Why her?” Finnick asks. “If you’ve been planning this for so long, then why wait for her? Why didn’t you do anything years ago?”

“Oh, we had nearly everything ready, but every movement needs a lightning rod.” Plutarch tells him eagerly, like a kid excited to show off a house of cards he’s been working on for quite some time. They’re standing on the rooftop where they first met nine years ago. Finnick’s jaded and broken in now, and thus he feels far more wary talking so freely with a Gamemaker than he did back then, but… neither of them have been arrested yet. “There were a few contenders of course, but nobody quite hit on what Katniss has. Inspiring the masses and all that.”

“There were other contenders? Who, Johanna?”

“No. Too much of a wild card from the start,” dismisses Plutarch almost immediately. He pauses, considers, then adds: “You were one actually. For a moment.”

That manages to surprise him, and Finnick turns his attention fully to the new Head Gamemaker. “Me? Really?”

“You had the attention of people, _and_ their devotion, plus that natural quality to connect with a crowd on an almost personal level - similar to Peeta. And I could see you were troubled after your Games, no longer sold on the glory of it. Plus, you had Mags in your corner. But, well…” Plutarch trails off, seems to realize where this conversation is heading.

Finnick figures it out too. “You couldn’t make a lightning rod out of someone with my reputation.”

“No, we couldn’t.” And at least Plutarch has the decency to sound apologetic about it. “If it makes you feel better, I think that was at least half the reason for all of… everything you’ve been going through.”

He almost wants to laugh. Here they are casually discussing treason and Plutarch’s too embarrassed to address Finnick’s forced prostitution out loud. Typical Capitolite.

But there’s some other point Plutarch’s trying to get at, and Finnick’s missing it. “What do you mean?”

Plutarch looks _so_ uncomfortable. “I mean, you must know it’s not all about the money.”

No, of course not. If it were, Snow wouldn’t hand Finnick off as a favor to other politicians and business tycoons like a gifted fruit basket. 

He wouldn’t send Finnick off to Crassus at the ending of the Games every year like clockwork, even though it’s been a long time since Crassus was forcibly retired from Gamemaking - and from Snow’s esteem. But Snow loves his traditions, especially the ones that send Finnick crashing to rock fucking bottom just in time to be sent home.

_(he's been touched by what feels like a thousand different hands since that first time, and somehow every time he's made to deliver himself to the first person to ever devour and discard him, it feels like he's that terrified kid again._

_and of course, that’s probably the point.)_

“It’s about control.” Finnick says. “Keeping us, the popular Victors, in line. Reminding us who owns us, so we don’t get any ideas about overstepping and trying to use our platform against him.” 

“Eliminate the threat, or at least keep it in check,” agrees Plutarch. “But he’s wrong, because he doesn’t own you. He only thinks he does, and that’s going to be his downfall.”

Finnick looks out at the Capitol skyline. Imagines, for a moment, a world with no Reapings, no dead Tributes, no broken Victors. 

No Hunger Games.

“I’m in.” He finally says, still not looking directly at Plutarch. “Contingent on Annie’s protection. And Mags, my brother and his wife, my aunt’s family too. But Annie comes first. You keep her safe and I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” 

He’s sold his soul to worse people before.

Plutarch visibly slumps in relief. “That’s so good to hear. Because you’re - we’ve got others, but none of them are… well, they’re not _you._ They’re not as…”

“Valuable.” Finnick finishes for him, shoving his hands in his pockets and heading for the doors. “Yeah, I’ve heard that I'm _very_ special.” 

Then stops. Turns back around.

“For the record Plutarch, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

 _“This_ will.” Plutarch assures him. “This'll be worth all of it. You’ll see.”

  
  


* * *

Finnick's just barely twenty-five when he dies for Katniss Everdeen and the revolution. It's brutal, and it's painful, and it isn't quick.

He never lives to see if it's worth it or not.

Fifteen years later, Plutarch Heavensbee visits Four and stops by the little house on the cove to greet Annie and Rio.

As he watches the animated boy chattering mindlessly with his mother, the former Gamemaker decides that Finnick would have agreed that it was.

Because fourteen-year-old Rio Odair has never attended a Reaping.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I apologize for the horribleness of this (I promise I will get out of my angsty funk soon), my brain was just stuck on "Line in the Sand" and the backstory between Finnick and Crassus and well... this happened.
> 
> Suzanne Collins mentioned in an interview thing that Katniss is the "Spartacus" that Plutarch has been waiting on, and he considered others (including Finnick) but ultimately none of them had quite the right narrative like Katniss did. So that's sort of where this comes from, as well as just my musing about Finnick's character in Mockingjay, and how familiar he is with the lengths that Snow will go to control and hurt anyone that he perceives as a threat.


End file.
